Tuesday, 11:59 P.M - I can’t bear to live with the guilt any longer. I’ve been a failure and a fraud for so long, I can’t recall when I lost my soul. I can’t help anyone, much less myself. I never meant to hurt Kris, but I couldn’t stand it when she left me. When she refused to take me back, something inside snapped and I went berserk. I don’t remember beating and choking her. I don’t know why I taped her hands over her mouth near the Dumpster, but I covered her face with that towel because I was so mortified. I hope she and her family can eventually find it in their hearts to forgive me. I don’t deserve to live a lie, and they deserve the truth.
- Mitchell Adams
“Not bad for a first draft, you definitely have talent. You should address it to Kris, though. Suicide notes are almost always written to a particular person or group. I don’t use the word ‘berserk.’ Change it to ‘lost all control.’ Mention my parents at the end. Something comforting like they were always there for me, urging them not to blame themselves or that I alone am responsible for this mess. Throw in that they’re vacationing on Safari; that adds a nice touch of realism. You also overlooked the obvious fact that the note is typed and unsigned. Anyone could have made this. Free my hands and I’ll write and sign it for you.” I looked up at him and smiled. He did a slow boil.
His face contorted as he stood up. The face of an old man appeared before me. It was not that of Father James. It reminded me of a vulture. “It’s time to put an end to your arrogance. The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon will turn to blood on this great and awesome day, your beginning of sorrows. I will feed off your destruction for days.”
He’s paraphrasing Bible verses. The day of reckoning, my Judgment Day, has come.
He produced a length of thin rubber tubing and a syringe from his pocket.
“Why the syringe?” I asked, my voice rising even though I was trying like hell to control it. I squirmed in the seat and tried in vain to back away. I could feel my chest tighten, my skin crawl.
Where is everyone?
He dug an empty soda can from a waste basket and twisted it back and forth until he tore the bottom off. “You know what this will be?” he asked, cleaning it with an alcohol swab.
I groaned. “It’s curved inward, like a spoon.”
“Very good. Have you done this before?”
“A few of my clients have.”
“I’ll adjust the dose for you. Give you half a chance.” He produced a Bic and a small vile of brownish-white powder. He carefully measured some of the substance and squirted water from the syringe into the soda can bottom. He heated the can over the Bic until the drug dissolved, stirring the solution with the plunger.
“The note is fine.” He smirked again. “Have you developed a new perspective on ECT yet? At first I planned your suicide by shooting you full of cocaine and throwing you through this ninth floor picture window so you could experience what Jack must have felt, but your pain would have been over too soon.”
Satisfied with his drug prep, he drew the liquid into the syringe. “I’ve chosen to let fate decide. China White is a pure form of heroin that is actually more brown than white. As you see, it is liquid soluble and, as you are about to experience, it rapidly crosses the blood-brain barrier. I don’t believe this is enough to kill a novice user of your size, but you never know the purity with China White. Many die from accidental overdoses. You get high, I make another anonymous call, and the police find you passed out here with the note. They rush you to the hospital, pump you full of Narcan, and try to save you for the trial and public humiliation. If you survive, you go away for first degree murder. I take your place with that leggy stewardess who used to worship the ground you walked on. I will send cohorts to defile you in prison. Eventually I will arrange for an amoral Neanderthal to toss you from the prison roof to see if you’ve learned how to fly. I like that plan best. What do you think?”
“I’m more of a New Testament kind of guy,” I said.
His smirk became a frown. “You are quite the accomplished bull-shitter. As an added bonus, I added the HIV virus to the heroin. Got another smartass comeback for that, Mr. Funnyman?” He moved toward me, preparing to wrap the rubber tubing around my arm to raise a vein, and said, “You’re about to lose that smug attitude. The second this needle’s in, your life is over.”
I had to think of something, anything, fast. I’m missing something.
“China White? I’d expect that from Jack.”
He hit me again so hard my nose bled. “Say my brother’s name again and I tape your mouth.”
“You were right about everything,” I said. “I feel at peace like poor Dr. Mendez. Thank you for telling me about the Wrath of God and the Will of God.”
He wrapped the rubber tubing below my bicep and tapped my arm in spots, probing for the right vein. Making a face, he said, “What?”
I was on the verge of blacking out again. I spit blood onto the carpet. Sweat stung my eyes.
I stared at the syringe. “You got an air bubble in there.”
“Does it really matter? If you’re done stalling,” he said, looming over me, “it’s time. Enjoy your last pleasant feeling of well-being. It’s like a Vicodin high, only much stronger. You’ll feel warm, sleepy, maybe a little itchy. After that, it’s all downhill for you.” My vision blurred again; the vulture face moved toward me like the black hand of a clock.
I struggled for breath, trying not to hyperventilate as I faced head on the terrifying presence of the Will of God. I was about to die. The needle hovered on my skin, ready to puncture my vein. He was enjoying it, dragging out every single second. I thought of Kris and how she must have felt. I thought of everyone who’d ever been brutalized by someone they knew. I thought of two innocent twin boys at the mercy of a father, a man of God who turned out to be a monster.
Then everything fell into place. “Daddy forced you down into that dark basement, too. Didn’t he, Jimmy?”
He stopped. The vulture leer stared at me, through me, until his eyes glazed over.
“Your father took turns with you and your brother. You repressed the memory. You’ve confused sex with control and power ever since. The needle wavered in his hand while he weighed my words.
I had one chance to guide him through this before he regrouped.
“I can help you. Look at me.” He turned away. “Look at me, Jimmy!”
When he did, I said in as calm a voice as I could, “You have me bound, you are in complete control. Focus your attention on my left thumb and index finger. When my fingers touch, you will allow yourself to fall into a deep, restful state. You will be able to hear my voice and talk with me during this restful time. You will allow yourself to remember past events in your life while in this relaxed state.”
I usually place a pen and a light source close to my client’s face to try this, but I had no choice now. And it wouldn’t work at all unless some part of Fogerty wanted to know, wanted to remember, to fill in the memory gaps of his childhood trauma. But it was my only chance. No one was coming to save me. “Imagine yourself resting peacefully on a secluded tropical beach, you’ve just had the best deep body massage in your life, the bright sun is warming your relaxed body, a cool breeze is at your back as a light mist reaches you from the bluest ocean you’ve ever seen. Allow yourself to be at complete peace with the world while you watch my fingers.” With what little strength remained in my aching wrist, I had been slowly diminishing the space between my fingers while I set the scene.
I said a silent prayer as my fingers touched.
He closed his eyes. His chin lowered to his chest when my fingers met.
So far so good.
“Can you hear me, Jimmy?”
“Yes.”
“Open your eyes now.”
He did as I said and raised his head.
“You are safe here. No one can hurt you. Allow yourself to see your boyhood home. Take a tour through the living areas on the main floor, revisit your room and the backyard you played in. Can you see it all?”
“Yes.”
“What are the earliest childhood memories of your mother?”
He paused, then: “Sitting on her lap … tugging on her apron when I wanted something. Licking the batter off the spoon. The smell of her chocolate chip cookies baking.”
“What are your earliest memories of your father?”
His brow furrowed and he grew anxious.
“You’re safe. He’s not here.”
“Sometimes he let me steer the car from his lap. He was strong … his voice sounded like it came from everywhere. He knew God. He talked to Him.”
“You’re doing fine. Remember, no one can hurt you here. Allow yourself to remember going down to the basement when you were eleven. Allow yourself to remember what happened there. With your dad. He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s dead.”
He closed his eyes. He made small, jerking head movements like he was having a nightmare. Behind the lids his eyes moved rapidly and I feared the hypnotic induction would be broken. At last he said, “Smells. I remember smells.”
“Which ones?”
“Mold. Coal. Licorice. Almonds. Sweat….” His eyes sprang open; I saw fear in them. “And copper.”
“Allow yourself to remember why you smelled them.”
He pursed his lips. “Water seeped in through cracks in the foundation when it rained. The drywall got moldy from it. I could taste it in the air after the water receded. The water ruined Jack’s old set of plastic-coated weights, tiny chunks of concrete always on the floor for us to step on. The house had a coal furnace when it was first built. Part of the original basement was an old coal bin. The bin area later became part of the crawl space under the house. It was full of spider webs, bugs, and shadows. Jack and I thought monsters lived in the blackness of the crawl space. We were wrong.” He stopped and swallowed hard.
“Allow yourself to continue, you’re doing great, Jimmy.”
“He liked licorice candy. I smelled it on his breath downstairs.”
“Who?”
“Him.”
“Your father?”
A brief head nod.
“He’d give me a piece of candy after we were done … before we went back upstairs. The almond smell came from a bottle, some type of liquor. He only drank it in the basement, away from mom.”
Amoretto liquor.
“Allow yourself to continue remembering, Jimmy. You’re safe here, no one can hurt you.”
His eyes snapped open again as he stared into the past. “I remember,” he said, void of emotion, “I remember him wearing a white shirt. His thick, black curly hair poked out of it from the front and back. The sweat poured from his chin onto my back. I always went face first into the dirty sofa cushions. I didn’t want Jack to hear me scream.”
“You’re doing great, Jimmy. Why do you remember a copper smell?”
He bit his lip and said, “He had a special chair, beyond the padlocked door. At first it was just an old wooden chair with wooden arm rests and a high back. He added foot rests like wheelchairs have, but made of wood. He pounded hundreds of sixteen penny nails through the back, hand, seat, and foot rests. The jagged heads stuck out past the entire surface area. If I disobeyed, he forced me to sit naked in it while he interrogated me. He’d strap me in with belts around the waist, arms, forehead, and ankles. My own body weight caused the back half of my body to bleed. If I cried out he doubled the time in the chair. Sometimes when it was my turn I’d see Jack’s blood still shining wet on the nails under the bare bulb. It smelled like copper. I still see it on my hands. He raped me. And Jack.”
“He’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore, Jimmy. Now I want you to focus again on my fingers.”
He looked at them, apparently surprised by the color. “They’re blue.”
“They sure are. When my fingers touch this time, you will awake refreshed and remember everything that happened in your past with your father.” I slowly brought my trembling fingers together. When I did he looked up at me with the eyes of a lost little boy and began to cry.
“I HAVE TO TELL HIM!” he screamed between sobs, staring beyond me.
“It’s okay. Untie me, Jimmy.”
He looked at the syringe in his hand as if he were seeing it for the first time. He dropped it and began wiping his hands together and on his pants. “The blood! Look at the blood! Help me get it off!”
I had to act fast before I blacked out. “I’ll help you wash it off. Get me out of this chair. You can just be Jimmy again. No more blood on your hands!”
He studied the floor-to-ceiling window in my office, the Taser, the syringe, my taped wrists, and suicide note. He reached into his back pocket and a glint of steel flashed in the air. He walked to me, a scalpel extended in his right hand and paused. Shadows of the vulture leer of the Will of God returned to his face. What was I thinking? I should have tried to have Jimmy free me while he was hypnotized. Was I about to die? I shut my eyes, then thought better of it and opened them to show him I wasn’t carrion yet. The scalpel came closer to my face, then my heart.
Was he about to cut a II into the singed flesh over my heart?
In one swift motion the scalpel swung to my left wrist and sliced through the layers of tape like paper. Then he freed my other wrist.
My arms were on fire and I nearly passed out again. He stood over me, scalpel in hand. I asked him to help me stand when the door exploded inward, flying off its hinges with a deafening twist and shriek of metal, and the chair James had bucked against the door splintered into kindling. A black battering ram clanged to the floor. Four burly SWAT members in full gear, guns drawn, rushed in two-by-two formation through the door. They quickly disarmed a confused Father James, took him face down to the carpet, and cuffed his hands tightly behind his back. He offered no resistance while they searched him. His face looked like that of a frightened eleven-year old. I sat there shaking and pleading for them not to hurt him, promising him he’ll get the help he needs.
I have a crazy job in a crazy world.
SWAT searched the remainder of the offices and pronounced them clear.